


Sides of a Similar Coin

by someghostkid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Omnics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, it's the 20s but there's robots just go with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someghostkid/pseuds/someghostkid
Summary: In 1920s San Francisco, Overwatch has fallen, and the police have their hands full with the gang that's taken its place. Jesse McCree would prefer his ties to said gang left in the dirt where they belong, spending his days serving illegal alcohol in peace, but that becomes significantly harder when a newcomer sees fit to drag up his past. Old faces become fresh, memories become present reality, and Hanzo Shimada is not what he seems.





	1. He's Had It Up to Here

Leaning back against the ancient building, Jesse lets out a plume of smoke and watches as it curls its way up to the waning pastel sky. If he keeps his eyes focused on the horizon, way out over the ocean, he can nearly feel the salty air filling his lungs, maybe leaving a sting at the back of his throat. But when his gaze betrays him, falling back down to the packed, trampled street and the windswept alleyway, the sudden tightness makes him choke. The ocean disappears behind the brightening night lights and the clumps of passing partygoers. 

Ashes crumble onto the pants of his crossed leg. He swears and brushes them off, catching the attention of a couple entering his workplace, dressed to the nines and holding in giggles. 

“Newcomers,” Jesse grumbles under his breath, and stomps out the remains of his cigarette. With a stretch and a sigh, he slinks through the narrowly closing door, following his assured customers. He is immediately greeted by sweltering humidity in the stone staircase leading underground, and he removes his stetson to fan himself as he descends. Besides, Fareeha would kill him if she caught him wearing it behind the bar. 

As he turns the corner to said bar’s secret entrance, a commotion erupts on the other side, sounds of hollering and breaking glass. The nondescript metal door swings wide, smashing against the wall to reveal Winston and the supposed perpetrator of the chaos. Winston’s usual uniform of pressed slacks and black jacket protest against the struggle, and he grunts with the effort of half pushing, half lifting the stumbling blond man. He’s older, with a stoop to his gait and hair much too fine. He slurs something unintelligible as he throws off Winston’s grip. Wait a second, that hair, that voice… he turns to leave, and Jesse stiffens.

“This is the second time this week, Jack,” Winston states, blocking the doorway. “Get cleaned up, or find somewhere else to go on a bender.” 

Jack Morrison waves him off and starts to walk away. As he passes, he looks Jesse up and down, a flicker of recognition behind unfocused eyes. Jesse barely meets his gaze before familiarizing himself with the wall. He bites his tongue to keep from dragging up old arguments, old memories. 

“Son.” 

Jesse bristles at mumble, but Jack rounds the corner, ignoring whatever fire he’s just lit. Winston eyes the interaction, some serious questions in his raised brow. Jesse marches forward, determined to deal with that mess later, and Winston takes the hint. He turns to the snappily dressed couple trying to make themselves disappear. 

“Password?” he asks, and they flinch at the sudden address.

“G-got a dime?” sputters the man. Winston nods and steps aside to let them pass. Jesse trails after them once again, entering the wave of restarted conversations and jumping jazz spilling into the hallway. 

The couple quickly melts into the packed dance floor. San Francisco's finest jimmy and jive to the band on low stage across the room, all clad in the latest flappers and oxfords. Jesse spots Fareeha slipping between the rhythms of the young and illegally inebriated, platters of drinks raised high above her head. Her flat eyes and pursed lips make her stand out from the toothy grins and swinging hips of those around her. Jesse vaguely recalls her claims of running her mother’s bar-turned-speakeasy as a dream come true, but her unbelievable booze hookup could very well be the end of her, in more ways than one.

Her face more closely mirrors those of the people on the fringe, sitting at the tables lining the columned walls. Mostly men, they sit hunched over, their cigarettes nearly poking each others’ eyes out, or burning holes in their dark silk suits. Some add an extra layer of mystery by tipping their fedoras over their eyes, the dim lights so far up the arched ceiling casting deep shadows. Jesse sweeps his gaze over each group, hoping for no more trouble this evening, but knowing the gangster types never disappoint. 

He lets the mobsters go for now, moving back to his spot behind the bar, where loud 20-somethings chatter and sunken war vets try to keep from caving in on themselves. As Jesse’s hanging up his hat, the piano fades out, and a chorus of enthusiastic applause rises from the dance floor, backed by a few hearty cheers. Jesse begins catching up on drink orders as the piano man himself steps up to the mic.

“Wow, thank you all, you’re too kind!” He flicks his dark, locked hair slightly, and his flashy green suit pushes all boundaries of fashion. “My name is Lucio, and I will be your musical host for the rest of the evening. Joining me now is the lovely, the beautiful, the incredible… Angela Ziegler!” 

The crowd bursts with hollering and applause again as Angela appears from behind the drab curtains. While shaking up another round for the seedy gentlemen at table five, Jesse takes a second to watch the show. Angela takes her place at the mic while Lucio retakes the piano, her sleek white dress melting in the stagelight. Her blond hair radiates nearly as much brilliance as Lucio’s suit, and she tucks a strand behind her ear as she nods to the crowd in thanks. They calm and sway as Lucio starts to tap out the melody, something slow and saturated with melancholy, and Angela takes a deep breath.

“There was a moon out in space,” she sings, blinking slowly. Her accent softens each syllable as her voice drips through the speakers. “But a cloud drifted over its face…” 

The song is quick to take Jesse’s heart in a vice grip, the sadness of it taking him back to the hallway, back to the horizon, back to when “son” was gently sung with a hand on his shoulder, not spat as his feet and left to rot. He stares towards the stage, but his mind is hardly in the same place as his gaze. 

“Heya, McCree!” calls a voice from the end of the bar closest to the stage. Jesse blinks out of his reverie and snaps towards the sound. A woman waves at him, bright purple gloves tracing up to her elbows and making streaks in the low light. Matching purple swims through her hair, all pulled to one side, and links of jewels weigh down her black satin dress. Jesse bites back an audible swear. If Sombra’s here, he can surely toss out all hopes of no further trouble. 

As he makes his way down the bar towards her, he makes out the people flanking her sides. One is her usual partner in crime, a woman of very few words but very expensive taste. Her dress of similar fashion hugs her every angle, and her skin sinks so far into her bones, she looks nearly dead. She swirls her drink absentmindedly, eyelids heavy with sheer boredom. Jesse vaguely recalls her name; Amelie something-or-other, but her notoriety for making people disappear as earned her the gang circuit nickname of Widowmaker. 

The other person is new, however. Or at least, he’s never ordered a drink here before. The man sits with his attention towards the stage and elbow resting on the countertop, but his stiff shoulders and straight back suggest his attention is everywhere. All Jesse can make of his turned away face is sharp eyebrows, an impossibly chiseled jaw shaped by a trimmed beard, and a moderately small nose. The bun sitting atop his head is a new look, but the insignia embroidered on his jacket sleeve certainly isn’t. A curling dragon with a long, owl-like mask. 

“What can I do ya for, Miss Sombra?” Jesse asks, forcing a sense of nonchalance. 

Sombra laughs. “Oh, come on, really? We’re just going to bypass the little blast from the past that happened to go stumbling out your doors?” 

“Not my doors,” he shrugs. “And not my problem. S’at all, or can I getcha a refill?” 

Sombra makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “Why so frosty? I just wanted to see how white that old fart made you. Look, Widow, he’s practically a ghost!” She whacks the woman to her left, who proceeds to look Jesse over from hair to boots, cock an eyebrow, and scoff. Jesse would be insulted, but given his track record of insults hurled in his direction, a scoff is practically a compliment.

As Sombra comes back down from her fit of cackling, she dramatically wipes a tear from her eye. “Anyway, that’s not why I called you over. I figured you should meet one of our new friends.” She reaches around the man to her right, grabbing his shoulder and swinging him around on the bar stool. 

Dark eyes and gaunt cheekbones pierce Jesse, almost more judgemental than Amelie’s scoff. The man gives away nothing, his face a sheet of stone. Some part of Jesse’s heart not entirely still under Angela’s spell does a tiny flip, but he squashes it. The subtle flick of the man’s eyes makes Jesse squint. 

“This is Hanzo Shimada,” Sombra introduces. “He’s done some work for us the past few months, actually, but he doesn’t get out much.”

Jesse holds out a hand. “Pleasure,” he says, with some convincing enthusiasm. The new man takes his outstretched hand carefully, every movement calculated, right down to the squeeze of each finger. 

Inwardly squinting, Jesse continues, “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Shimada?” 

Mr. Shimada takes a fraction of a second too long, but his voice gives no emotion. “No, thank you.” 

“He’s our ride home,” Sombra says playfully. “Such a responsible gentleman.” She gives him a sly smile, as if they’re sharing a private joke. 

Jesse hovers for a moment, somewhat off-put, but more wanting to get back to his job before Fareeha catches him socializing. “Well, if that’ll be all then, I best-” 

“McCree! When did you get to be such a stick in the mud?” Sombra interjects. Another bar-goer down the way calls for Jesse’s attention, but Sombra keeps him planted. 

“Remember when work used to be fun?” She continues, almost wistful, but Jesse catches a whiff of her agenda. “We used to do so many jobs together, right before shit went crazy. And our bosses didn’t care if we got things done our own way.” 

Jesse doesn’t much appreciate her tone. “Miss Amari does care if I get outta my job in one piece. Gotta admit that’s a perk,” he shoots back. 

Sombra rolls her eyes dramatically. “So did Reyes-” she freezes at his name, and Jesse’s eyes flare in warning. She backpedals. “Look, you seem stuffed is all. You’re stuck behind this bar, serving every two bit criminal that passes by. You deserve some freedom, friend.”

She flicks her gaze over both shoulders, then leans in, nearly elbowing Amelie’s drink. Amelie, who has taken a keen interested in the floor tiles throughout Sombra’s antics, huffs and shifts to rest her chin on her other hand. 

“If you wanted back in the family, I could-”

“Enough.” Jesse slams down the empty glass he had absentmindedly picked up, the cleaning rag preventing it from shattering with the force. Sombra sits upright, startled. “If you don’t like how Fareeha pays the bills, you can find another basement to get drunk in. Lord knows you and your two bit criminal friends don’t liven the place up any.” 

Sombra’s face loses all humor, shock mixing with anger. Amelie’s gaze alone is positively lethal, but Jesse has come to know that as normal. He gives a pointed look to their new man, Mr. Shimada, who seems to have finally betrayed some emotion: curiosity. But Jesse lets it go, turning his back on the trio to attend to other half-wit, low-life, middle-of-the-road, or otherwise minor criminals populating the bar. 

“Suit yourself,” Sombra mutters, just loud enough for Jesse to hear the bite to her voice. But as he moves back down the bar, he just can’t bring himself to care. 

Angela’s voice back on stage finally comes to rest and the piano finishes with a few last mournful notes. Sombra stands, dragging the other two with her to become one with the crowd, who applaud uproariously again. Jesse gets back to what he’s paid for. 

When the cheering subsides, Lucio’s fingers pick right up, tapping out a jaunty beat that sends a ripple of clasped hands and kicking feet through the dance floor. Angela joins in with the band, but her words bounce off Jesse’s ears, indistinguishable. He makes drinks on automatic, his hands working from pure muscle memory while his attention moves against his will, staying firmly on Sombra’s offer. He pushes back the bubbling over pot of a flashback, but it spills over.

He finds himself back with the old gang, the final page of epilogue as far as he was concerned, the funeral. The final shootout cost lives on both sides, and theirs had taken a major hit: their leader, Gabriel Reyes, was dead. 

Even though Jesse and Gabe hadn’t been on speaking terms for a number of months, Jesse went to his funeral. He received some pretty nasty stink eyes upon entering the graveyard, but he tipped his hat low, letting himself be engulfed by his faded serape. 

Sombra, Amelie, and the other newer recruits, the ones who didn’t know what it was like before Jack left, huddled together at the end of the still open grave. They came to understand a much different version of Gabe than others, Jesse came to realize. They knew him only as Reyes, the stone cold boss who monopolized crime along the coasts of San Francisco, and would’ve spread further, if he wasn’t his own worst enemy. They may not have known the last part, though. But Jesse did. 

He found a comfortable spot in the grass a ways away, the tree bark poking into his back, but he didn’t mind. It kept him grounded. 

He focused on the eulogies various members gave in Gabe’s remembrance. Winston was the first, since he and Gabe had been friends back in the day, but he mostly stayed out of Gabe’s personal, more criminal enterprises. Not one for public speaking, he stood behind the headstone and told from the heart about his old pal’s personality, his grit, his perseverance, and his tough-to-see soft side. He told the tale of a rescued orphan, a real bedtime story type, that involved Gabe turning a kid’s life around, giving him a home, even if the ending wasn’t so picturesque. Jesse shrunk with every stumbled out detail. 

Sombra came up later, some of the most hardened criminals already moved to tears, or at least intense sniffling. She told her own story, a kid on a mission, bitterness and injustice weighing her down. But Reyes took it and gave her a direction. He was a mentor, a ruthless leader…

“A father,” she choked out, and Jesse resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

She had always been one for the dramatic, Jesse knew, and the waterworks were mostly for show, but she had had a genuine connection with the man. Jesse figured most of the audience, the people who hardly knew him, thought Sombra was the orphan that Winston spoke of. He tried to swallow that, but it wouldn’t go down.

He had a fleeting image of pushing the next speaker aside and telling his own story. He would tell the entire crew about that orphan, a dumb kid committing dumb crimes with other dumb kids just to give himself something to do. He would talk about what that kid thought was his last stand, a half loaded gun, a stubbed cigar, and a heist gone wrong. He would paint for the gang a picture of a figure dressed in black, swooping in like a bird, and giving him another option, a less permanent way out. That figure grew to be a mentor, a fearless leader, a father. 

And then shit hit the fan. A war started, the world changed, people left, and took others’ sanity with them. A figure corrupted, and an orphan became an orphan again. 

He really didn’t want to tell that last part. He didn’t really want tell any of it, and he left. He didn’t see the weary blond man watching him go. 

Jesse’s ears are the first to come back to the present. They make out raised voices, and not in the drunkard over-enjoying the music kind of way. Some shouts from the tables, then coming closer, until a deep, gruff voice yells, “HEY!” 

Jesse looks towards the call, finding it hard to grasp anything solid. He stares a man in the face, his intense, hate filled eyes meeting his own. 

“Yessir, can I help ya?” Jesse asks. 

“Yeah, you can shut your damn trap,” comes a clipped reply. “You not a fan of my gang’s money in your pocket?” 

“S’cuse me?” Jesse shakes his head, not completely hanging onto the man’s words, until he spots Sombra standing a few feet behind him, eyes narrowed. Fuck. 

“What, you deaf or somethin’? That might explain the shit you said about my crew.” The man leans over the bar, getting as close to Jesse’s face as he can. “You best remember who owns you, little man. We could make all this-” he gestures to the ceiling, “-disappear real quick.” 

Jesse’s used to intimidation tactics, but he doesn’t appreciate the name calling. “Last I checked, you didn’t pay the bills.” 

The man’s arm suddenly jumps forward and coils itself in the collar of Jesse’s tee shirt. He yanks Jesse closer, and Jesse juts his chin out; it could be seen as a show of defiance, but it’s mostly to escape the man’s booze breath. 

“I don’t have to,” the man hisses. “We run this town. You and your cheap gin don’t mean a lick.” 

“But you’re here, and not one a’ yer own fine establishments. Why is that?” Jesse smirks. 

The man opens his mouth for a retort, but the sound of a platter crashing on the bar catches both of their attentions. Looking over reveals Fareeha, all near-six foot of her wound tight like a spring, her tattoo jumping with every eye twitch. 

“You let go of my employee or so help me, I will make sure you and your goons never see another drop of alcohol in this city,” she threatens, her voice even but her stare filled with fire. 

The man drops Jesse’s shirt. “Is that a threat?” he asks, trying to play it off, but Jesse swears he sees Sombra roll her eyes. 

“Of course it’s a threat, dumbass,” Fareeha says, not taking the bait. “Now get the hella out of my saloon before I call the police.”

The man licks his lips and backs away. A few patrons spook at the word “police,” but even the man forces a smile at Fareeha’s joke. 

Jesse watches Sombra’s crew go. Members of their gang wave them off, while others try to lock Jesse in a stare down. He doesn’t bite. 

As he counts those who remain, making note of any more possible troublemakers, he realizes he’s one short. The earlier man, the one with the bun, what was his name? Mr… Shimada, that was it. Mr. Shimada, Sombra’s supposed “ride home,” isn’t with her, nor is he staring him down from any of the usual tables. Jesse squints. 

He moves to scan the dance floor, on the off chance that Mr. Shimada learned to live a little, when a hand collides with the back of his head. 

“Ah! What was that for?” he yelps.

“For mouthing off,” Fareeha answers sternly. “I know you and Sombra and all of them have a history, but they make up a decent amount of the rent and of your pay.” 

Jesse keeps rubbing at the back of his skull. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t like it, but I know.” 

He picks up a glass and rubs at it with the rag, just wanting to do something with his hands. He moves his gaze back up to the dance floor, remembering Mr. Shimada, but his heart not in the search. Fareeha opens her mouth to reply, but decides against it. She places a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze, then leaves him be. He lets a slight nod do the thanking for him. 

As she leaves, Jesse looks into the faces of the partiers on the dance floor. Most should probably be cut off from the bar at this point in the evening, but he can’t bring himself to ruin their fun. Still no Shimada, but Jesse’s not sure if it much matters; he’s just another shifty character in a long, exhaustive line, composed of most of the residents of San Fran, all of whom have passed under the bar’s entryway. 

His line of sight reaches the edge of the floor, where those on the fringes stand at an awkward angle to the stage. They still dance, but in darkness. A sliver of light peaks through the crowd, barely noticeable until it grows, and then shrinks again.

The storeroom door. It moves in the wind sweeping down the staircase from the back alley, the hatch left open, moonlight seeping in. 

Jesse finds himself squinting in suspiciousness for what must be the final time this evening. Once a week, the storeroom is filled to the brim with whatever Fareeha’s bootleggers can get. Before every night, behind the bar is stocked, inventory is taken, or at least loosely noted, and the storeroom is locked by Jesse himself. 

But the door stands ajar in the middle of rush hour. And one shady character is missing. Jesse’s never been one for jumping, but he doesn’t have to when the conclusions draw themselves.

***

Across the city, at a much different trade works a much different man, into the wee hours of the morning. He sits at his desk, the rest of the station silent and unmoving. A tiny desk lamp provides just enough light to see the case file laying open in front of him, unanswered questions staring him in the face. Sketches of blank buildings, pictures of bullet holes, men counting drugs, bodies. A pile of folders awaits his keen senses just out of the circle of light, where he pretends he can’t see them. He leans a metal hand on a metal cheek and taps absentmindedly with the other.

A sharp bang from the darkness behind him catches his attention, and his gaze jumps to the partially broken wall clock. Quite a bit late, he notes. 

He stands, a few joints creaking and humming as they shake themselves awake. He pads over to the back corner, behind the evidence room and the sad excuse for a break table, to a nondescript alley door, which echoes again with a knock. 

He opens it to reveal a young man in an expensive suit that bleeds into the void of the alleyway. A chunk of dark hair hangs close to an eye, and his high bun leans to one side. He clutches the manilla envelope at his side with nearly everything he has, the panting taking everything else. 

“Hanzo,” greets the detective. “It seems you’ve had quite the night.” 

Hanzo sighs, relief rushing through him at the chance of dropping his act. “I’m sorry I’m late. I wasn’t sure if I made it out unnoticed, so I took the long way.”

“Well, let’s see what the Russians and the locals are chatting about these days, hm?” Zenyatta unfolds a hand for the envelope, and Hanzo obliges. Zenyatta moves to return to his desk and beckons for Hanzo to follow, but the other shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he starts. “They are expecting me back at the warehouse, and with Sombra breathing down my neck as she is…” 

Hanzo trails off, but Zenyatta is quick to nod. “Of course, I understand, your cover and all. Thank you very much for this.” He holds the envelope like a platter. “Your service and sacrifice is most admirable.” 

Hanzo nods and bows his head slightly in thanks. Zenyatta turns to move away again. 

“Wait, Zen, before you go,” Hanzo says, then takes a breath. “How is Genji?” 

The lights that make up Zenyatta’s face blink off and on again, a sign of pause, of thought. “He is alright. Keeping him away from the gang related cases is… difficult, and he is eager as ever. And his little assistant is… a lot, sometimes. But we manage.” 

Hanzo nods again, but he doesn’t look to be leaving. 

“He is safe,” Zenyatta continues, gentle. “I believe he feels a bit stifled, but the money the city pays is much better than his old method of income.” 

“Could you tell him, from me-” 

“You know I cannot.” 

A muscle in Hanzo’s jaw twitches, and his shoulders sag a little lower. Zenyatta watches him catch himself, straightening his back and brushing away the falling hair, though his chest puffs out a might too far in overcompensation. 

“Thank you.” It is genuine, but clipped in emotional repression. 

Zenyatta tilts his head. “He does miss you,” he says. “I believe he often thinks about your last… interaction.” Hanzo’s gaze drops to the ground, guilt etched in his brow, and Zenyatta diverts. “He likes to talk about your childhood, too. When this is over, it seems you will both have a lot of reminiscing to do.” 

A small smile plays at the corner of Hanzo’s mouth, but it is weary. “Yes, I suppose we will.” He gives a final nod and ducks back into the night. Zenyatta remains in the doorway, watching the streets swallow him whole.

***

“I think some a’ the gangs are usin’ the stockroom to pass messages again,” Jesse calls to Fareeha as he wipes down the bar stools.

Fareeha stops sweeping, standing in the center of the dirtied, empty dance floor. Without the throngs of sweaty, gilded young criminals, the space stretches out like an ocean. Fareeha leans her head back, eyes closed, adrift. 

“I figured as much,” she sighs. 

“You want me to say anythin’ tomorrow or-?” 

“No,” she stops him. “Not after that stunt you pulled earlier.”

“You call that a stunt? I was just bein’ honest.” He finishes swabbing the last bar stool and rests with one hand on the countertop. 

“If you keep causing commotions, you will scare away the only honest customers we have,” she throws back. “And what would you do if you had to cater solely to the gangsters you can’t stand?”

He attempts an eye roll, but it doesn’t suit his face. “It’s not them bein’ here I got a problem with. I got a problem with them waltzin’ around, actin’ like they own the place.” 

“As long as they don’t burn us to the ground, they can say whatever they wish,” she says. “These are different people than those who made old promises to my mother. We live in different times.” 

“I hear ya,” Jesse replies, swiping a hand through his sweaty hair. 

Fareeha’s eyebrows knit together, and her eyes pinch to match. Jesse turns his back to her, putting the finishing touches on the bar. He hears the bristles of Fareeha’s broom start to rake the floor once again, the conversation officially dropped. 

As he moves to grab his hat off its mount on the wall, he throws one last look at the stockroom door, still wavering between swinging open or sealing shut. Shimada’s curious face flashes through Jesse’s mind, and a fist of dread clenches his gut.

***

The sun spreads its first rays over the clouds, bouncing their light off the water and into the rumbling precinct. Zenyatta drums his fingers on his desk in a tinny rhythm. He nods in greeting to each officer that shuffles their way in, starting their early days with coffee in hand or lights still dim, but his attention remains occupied by the file given to him hours prior. Its information is hidden under layers and layers of code, but it begs to be cracked.

A rump lands itself on the edge of his desk. He traces the attached torso up to find a young, grinning man in an ill fitted suit, hair slicked back haphazardly, resulting in wavy spikes. No badge hangs from his coat pocket, but the ease in his shoulders gives away his belonging. 

Genji produces a paper bag from behind his back and plops it open on his lap. “Good morning, boss!” He chirps. Stuffing a hefty chunk of muffin in his mouth, he spots the open file. “New case?” 

“Quite the contrary,” Zenyatta replies. “It’s older than either of us.” 

Genji’s face falls, crumbs flaking through his fingers, but he nods in understanding. “Ah. I take it I will not be assisting then.” 

Zenyatta gives a metallic sigh, a habit he’s picked up from the young man. “You’re very busy already, from what I understand.”

“The robbings on Mission Street are a joke,” Genji scoffs. “And I’m positive they are connected to Talon, or whatever they are calling themselves these days. Was I not hired to consult on these exact gangsters?” 

Zenyatta shakes his head and lifts the file closed as he pushes away from his desk. He stands, rotating his arms with a few satisfying pops. “And your knowledge has been crucial to a number of cases, particularly the Mission Street robbings.” 

He moises away as Genji leans his head back in a groan. “That knowledge could be used to tackle much bigger problems! Such as…” He gestures to the file. “... cracking their secret messages?” 

He could do a lot with just a glance, Zenyatta had to give Genji that. But he could still feel his meeting with Hanzo hanging over him like a cloud, and though he has never been one for breaking promises, their fates and their jobs hinged on this one in particular. 

Zenyatta mulls over possible excuses at the break table, stalling with a napkin and already clean hands, when Genji’s voice calls again. “Captain!” 

A few gears in his chest miss a turn, and he swivels to find Genji striding towards the entrance. Between him and a closing doorway filled with morning sun stands Captain Mondatta, his uniform crisp and slim metal hands woven together in a cradle. Zenyatta, out of habit, straightens his back and sets his pace to a march. The captain himself had been the reason Zenyatta joined the force all those years ago, nearly worshipping the ground he walks on, and if there is one detail Zenyatta, on any other day, respects Mondatta for is his inability to lie. 

“Sir, good morning. I have a question for you,” Genji starts, and Zenyatta is shortly making his way to his side. “Would it be possible to change my assignment? I believe Hana could handle Mission Street on her own, she has been begging for a solo case. Meanwhile, I could work on the new information surfacing about Talon’s new interactions-”

“Good morning, captain,” Zenyatta interrupts, holding himself from skidding to a stop. “Please excuse us, sir, Mr. Shimada is a little overeager.” 

“No, it’s perfectly alright,” Mondatta replies with a wave. “You wish to work Zenyatta’s case, hm? Well, I…” 

Zenyatta notices the captain’s attention flick to himself, the blink of Mondatta’s lights barely readable, and Zenyatta braces for the surely transparent lie to fall flat. 

“I was under the impression you were not to be near those doings,” the captain says with false confidence, and Zenyatta tenses again. Mondatta manages to lie so poorly that Zenyatta can see the truth hiding behind his words, pushing to break free. 

Zenyatta throws a hand out to stop him, but as he moves, he can see Genji’s face already knotting in confusion. Mondatta raises his head to speak again when the sound of breaking glass far above their heads shatters the precinct’s attention. 

Mondatta falls to the tile with a clanking of metal that rings in the ears, but not before Zenyatta locks on the clear, sizzling hole directly above his lights, blinking frantically until fading to black. The bullet that did the deed only makes a sound in Zenyatta’s memory. 

Officers around the room move all at once, barking orders, shielding themselves unceremoniously with folders and briefcases. They leave in a flurry, the thrown open door sprawling a moving patch of light across Mondatta’s body. Zenyatta can’t feel his knees; they threaten to send him to the ground as well. 

Seeing that Zenyatta may never move again, Genji hooks his arm and drags him along with the panicked crowd. He hauls the other, frozen, out onto the sidewalk, throwing him into the daylight that’s never seemed so harsh. Genji pulls the two of them across the street, under the low awning of the little bakery for cover as others circle the precinct, looking to the rooftops for a shooter. Some part of Zenyatta’s mind tells him to follow suit, to take the command that he knows to be his now, but he remains fixed on the slowly closing door. The stream of light over Mondatta’s body slims until he is laid to rest in shadow, and the door slams shut with finality.


	2. Why Now?

A screeching siren whizzes past his seat in the shade, a smear of black and white tearing down the early morning street, and he winces at the sound stabbing his jaw. They were new, as far as he’d been in the States, but they’re too sharp, too close to the reason he came.

He watches the police car fling around the corner, and he wonders what he’s missed in the last few hours. Sleep, most notably, but he hasn’t admitted his tiredness to himself yet. He runs a hand through the thick swath of hair yanked back from his brow, and lets his hand catch the elastic to redo the bun. 

Stillness glazes his eyes as they sit on the same alley as they have all morning. They should be seeing the dark bricks, the trash tucked in corners, the blended basement door. But images of Sombra and her parting words take up his vision.

“Boss says this deal could change our future,” she says, that sly, almost daring smile sliding into her voice. “Sure is a lot of trust he’s putting in you.” 

“Your boss doesn’t work in trust,” he wanted to reply. “Just fear. I see how you would get the two confused.” 

If there is one thing Hanzo has learned from this crew, it’s the connection between keeping one’s mouth shut and keeping one’s head attached to their shoulders. It pains him, really; biting his tongue is not something he isn’t used to. 

_But it used to be a matter of respect,_ he thinks. Sombra’s words morph into his mother’s, probably misremembered from ages ago, words of duty to the family, of trust he was supposed to have in acts he didn’t understand, of disrespect and disappointment. The latter were never aimed at him, though. They were reserved for his brother, and his heart twists so suddenly, he gasps. 

Thoughts of Genji always send a queasy feeling rushing to Hanzo’s gut. The name alone is enough to slap him with his own words, his own mistakes, and his own reasons for being here and now. He resists the urge to grip the sides of his head and yell. It will do no good in releasing the guilt and frustration, but god, how he wishes it would. 

The fire in his mind and memory extinguishes when the slanted trap door swings wide, and a figure rises from the stark light thrown up the alley walls. The inching sunlight hasn’t quite made it into the city’s deepest corners yet, and the light from the storeroom only shows the person’s angles. Cropped hair, muscular but hidden under unshapely clothes, one foot braces on the little metal lip of the frame, hands on hips. The pose is different from the ones she struck last night, but Hanzo is certain the bar owner, Fareeha Amari, takes many in the multiple facets of her life. 

Hanzo crosses his legs and raises the morning’s newspaper to cover his face further with the building’s shadow. He catches a glimpse of some of the headlines, largely related to gang activity and the new, wildly unsuccessful laws, and the police car from earlier goes speeding through his head. He wonders if the morning news is already outdated, missing crucial information on wherever that car was going.

He shifts the newspaper lower, trying to look like he’s genuinely reading the thing, when a low, crunching rumble reaches his ears. The bumper of a truck, black paint smearing the brake lights, peeks around the corner, taking up the entirety of the slim dirt path that joins the backside of each building. The door slips up with a clatter, and an even larger figure lands with clouds of dust puffing around her feet. She steps to greet the bar owner; she doesn’t let the light touch her, but Hanzo doesn’t need to see her face to know who she is. 

Rippling muscles, undisguised under thin slacks and jacket, styled but untamed bright hair, a booming voice whose words he can’t make out from here, but the bass he can feel in his lungs. Fareeha Amari’s alcohol connection and Russian mafia heartthrob, Aleksandra Zaryanova. Or just Zarya, for those who find her name takes too much time when pleading for their lives. 

But in her greeting to Amari, Hanzo doesn’t see a trace of her head-bashing roots. She smiles warmly, teeth glinting, and grasps Amari’s hand with both of hers. When she opens her mouth in greeting, Hanzo chides himself. It _might_ help if he could actually hear their conversation. 

He waits for them to turn their backs, walking to the truck already being unloaded by two men bursting out of their short pants. Hanzo stands, slow and careful, then takes a moment to tuck his newspaper away and check his watch. He strolls across the street to old, forgotten crates outside the sagging two family home, and he puts on a real show for anyone watching. He throws a hand over his eyes in the sun streaming over rooftops and fans himself with his newspaper. He sits on the crates and flaps open the paper once more, nodding as if he’s found better light. It’s all very convincing. 

He’s lost sight of the alley in sitting adjacent to it, but the words passed between bar owner and supplier are much more important. It’s a few moments of grunting and clammer, a couple words traded in Russian, before that rolling, accented voice picks up.

“That should be all,” Zarya says. “Minusing the Yuengling, unfortunately. They have all but closed their doors. But I threw in a few extra Canadian’s for the trouble.” 

“Oh, thank you, we could use it,” comes a hearty reply, followed by friendly laughter. 

Footsteps in the distance make Hanzo tense, thinking himself caught, but they’re ascending, coming out of the cellar door currently behind him. They’re heavy, he notes, somewhat dogged and shuffled. Whoever they are carrying must have had a bad night. 

“McCree, glad you could lend us a hand,” Amari jokes, but it’s only followed by a groggy, “Yeah, yeah.” 

The voice sounds different from the night before, Hanzo thinks. Stripped of the thump of music and the ocean of chatter, it sounds hollow, tired, but he attaches it to the name nonetheless. Hanzo recalls the face, too, gaunt, but framed with full, dark hair, and skin that misses its deep tan. The twang in his voice and his posture suggested his origins lie outside the city, but his cleverly hidden scars show his real connection. Sombra refused to give Hanzo all the details, but he’d already been putting together the puzzle of the infamous Jesse McCree

More footsteps, crates and bottles jostling, idle chat about the news, the changing season. Hanzo begins to wonder why he arrived so early if he’s only here to pick up what’s to be left behind, when Zarya pipes up again.

“Ah! Fareeha, I nearly forgot. I have one more for you,” she says, her voice moving away with each boot fall. The sound of her boots on metal, a creaking axel, something heavy sliding its way closer. A cork releases from a bottle, maybe something larger, and then a gag.

“Oh god, what is that?” asks the bar owner, choked. Zarya gives a laugh so loud, it rattles Hanzo’s skull. 

“Do you like it? ‘Tis just a little something we cooked up,” she replies. “McCree! Come give ‘er a whiff, yeah?” 

More footsteps, and another groan. “Jesus, smells like you burned down a pharmacy. The hell you make this with? Expired cyanide?” 

Zarya laughs again, her bark shaking the neighbors awake for sure. “Does not matter. But I promise it will give your customers a good time!” 

And there it is. The proof Hanzo needed, and step one of his job, the Russians’ end of the bargain. He feels the anticipation underneath him somewhere, the fumes giving him something like tunnel vision. One assignment well done is one step closer to the boss, one step closer to this all being over for good, and he can feel the ache in his feet from all the steps in the past. This could be it, he thinks, the last footfall that puts him over the finish line. Hanzo forces his heart to steady, to not leap so far into the future. This job isn’t finished yet. 

Another light cough around the corner. “I’ll take your word for it. Bring it downstairs, McCree?” the bar owner says. “Thank you again, then.” 

“Of course!” Zarya says, followed by some kind of loud pat. Hanzo imagines her clapping Amari on the shoulder with a friendly gesture that he has seen send grown men sprawling. He doesn’t imagine it doing the same to this woman. 

“Well, we must be going, other stops to make and all.” There’s much shuffling, crates shifting, boots on dirt. “Always a pleasure, Fareeha.” 

“And to you. See you next week,” comes a reply, and then clunking footsteps on wooden stairs. 

Hanzo waits for a creak of metal hinges, but he only can make out a slight thump. He waits a fraction longer, possibly too cautionary at this point in his career. When he finally tucks the newspaper away and hazards a peak around the corner, Zarya has already mounted the puttering truck. She hangs out the sliding door, and her eyes fix on him, none of the jovialness she shared with Amari gifted to him as well. 

She ducks back into the truck and slams down the door. Hanzo hangs back, fishing in his pockets in a classic stall as the truck begins to motor away. Before the tail lights disappear entirely, a thin flash of white sails through the door’s hairline of a gap. It lands without notoriety, surely a simple mistake on the Russian’s part, letting a perfectly harmless envelope go like that. 

Hanzo smooths his coat and sets his shoulders as if he’s on his way. He forces himself not to scoop the envelope hurriedly, and he makes his way down the alley with only mild interest. But reaching down to grab it, his heart is in his throat. The physical contents of the envelope are inconsequential, just paper with what would appear as gibberish scrawled in a doctor’s penmanship. Only the boss knows the code. Only the boss made the deal, and only the boss will determine if their demands of trade meet the standards of his mad plan. And only Hanzo will hand deliver this to the boss himself. 

He tucks it inside the breast of his coat with a pat, and walks on, sticking to the private path. A man in a weathered stetson coming out for a smoke quirks a brow and watches him go. 

***

Zenyatta can’t bring himself to move from this very spot, stooped over, caving in on himself while seated on the curb. Someone draped a blanket over him some time ago, he didn’t really notice at the time. He wonders if the blanket is actually helping at all, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. Maybe it is not to keep him warm, but to momentarily distract from the constant flashes of the last moments of his mentor’s life.

He is aware of Genji hovering about, shielding him from other officers scurrying around, looking for orders, for evidence. Genji manages to engage in only two arguments, one about his place at the scene as merely a consultant, and one about moving the body. Zenyatta feels the words like a sting as the officer, notably human, calls his darkened features “creepy,” but it fades when Genji tells the officer to “do his damn job.” Zenyatta gives him a squeeze on the arm in thanks. 

A high pitched, quick gasp draws Zenyatta’s attention from the gaping maw of the precinct. He finds Hana Song, a hand dragging her mouth down in shock, standing with her morning coffee. She’s frozen mid-step, finally able to see the source of the commotion as she pushes through the gathering crowd, and she removes her sunglasses. The sadness carving wrinkles into her face shifts something within Zenyatta, and he is reminded of his new position, his new command. It’s time to take charge.

“Hana,” Genji calls first. He beckons her over, and she walks with hesitancy, her gaze not meeting his. 

“What happened? When? How…” she fumbles. Her hand jumps to Zenyatta’s shoulder. “Oh, Zenyatta. I’m so sorry.” 

She finally pulls her eyes down to his face, and he forces his body out of its position in limbo. He stands holding her placed hand, and slowly moves it down, encasing it in both of his own. He steels himself.

“Thank you, Hana,” he says, the smoothness coming easier than he expected. “Your concern is very touching. As for what happened, ah…” 

He lets himself take one more glance at Mondatta’s body, now shrouded in shadows of the moving sun, and lets the door close with an exhale. It still stands open, physically, but he cannot see it. 

A sudden fervor, the pattern of running steps emerges from the street around the building’s side, an officer from another precinct making a bee-line for the trio. He’s breathless, but he wheezes, “We found the roof.” 

Zenyatta nods and pushes a hand forward, letting the officer lead the way. Trailing behind, Genji catches his apprentice up on the unpleasant details. Hana is silent for what Zenyatta can only assume is the longest in her life. It pains him to see the two so subdued. 

Three streets and too many flights of stairs for knees in desperate need of a tune up later, they find themselves blinking in the light of an obvious crime scene. The rooftop gravel scatters in clear foot indents, some looking like it’s been kicked about just for the hell of it. Grease and black tread marks smear a small span of ledge, and bullet casing litter below. 

Genji breathes a swear. “It looks like they took out the whole precinct. How the hell did we only hear one shot?” 

“Because there was only one,” Zenyatta replies. Three other officers mill about the rooftop, but they make way for him to squat down, poking around the shells. He lifts one barely off the ground with a metal finger. “Nearly all of these are the wrong size for the gun that would’ve been used. They must have been brought here by the shooter.”

Genji hunches next to Zenyatta, squinting. “That’s just ridiculously extra,” he half jokes, but his heart isn’t in it. “Why? Is it a threat?”

“What if they’re taunting us?” Hana suggests as she scribbles in a notepad. “Like a show of force, or hint at their arsenal.” 

Zenyatta hums. “I would concur with you, Hana, but we can only speculate right now.” He takes a step back to let another investigator start picking up shells, marking their places in chalk. He spins his thumbs over one another in thought.

Genji moves to the ledge, his back to the others. The sun paints him in gold, and over his shoulder, Zenyatta makes out the reflection off the remaining windows of the precinct’s ceiling. He watches Genji rake a frustrated hand through his nest of hair, and he can imagine the knots being tied, the pieces being fitted in his brain. Zenyatta is already shaking his head as Genji turns back around.

“I only know of one person who could have aim like this,” he says anyway. 

“You’ve already got a suspect?” Hana asks, skeptical. “Do we even know the gun he used?”

“She,” Genji corrects, not breaking contact with Zenyatta.

Zenyatta bows his head with a whisper of a sigh. “We need more information-”

“We have plenty,” Genji cuts in. “Sir, please. I know better than anyone her tell tale signs. Hana is right, this is a taunt. She is daring us to catch her, _them,_ if we can, and after this…” 

He gestures back towards the precinct, half turning to fix on the broken pane. “This could be what we need to finish Talon.” 

“We need more information,” Zenyatta repeats. He won’t let Genji get ahead of himself, going off half cocked. “Not everything is within your scope of expertise, Genji.” 

Whether it be the strength of the rising sun or the prospect of a solid lead, Genji doesn’t deflate. Zenyatta knows too well of the drive that burns within him, but he knows, too, it is a fire that can eat away everything in its path, if it is not tended to carefully. 

“Let us see if there is anything new at the precinct, shall we?” Zenyatta proposes, and turns to Hana, pen stuck to her notepad over a spreading dot of ink. She looks to Zenyatta incredulously, her eyes combing his face, his posture, his anything, for some sign of his direction, his real feelings. She wants justice, just as he does, but for now, he places a gentle hand on her back, leading her to the stairwell. He lets Genji follow in his own pace. 

***

Oh no. No, sir. He could stomach the usual bar crowd, the occasional mouthing off, but passing notes, making deals in broad daylight, outside one of the only places left without mafia ties? Fareeha might not want him to confront anyone, but she hadn’t said anything about trailing them. 

So, upon emerging from the storeroom, spotting that curious man from the night before pick up an unmarked envelope not so subtly dropped by the Russians, Jesse decides to follow. Exiting the back street to the sunny main strip, beginning to fill with light morning foot traffic, it occurs to him this might be considered “snooping.” He has never before considered himself a snooper, but he knows what they say about desperate times. 

Jesse weaves around men in suits and the first peddlers pushing their carts. He keeps his hat low as to not invite their attentions, risking Mr. Shimada noticing his presence. Shimada himself seems an expert at passing through the sidewalks. He moves as a ghost, invisible to the world of the street. Though, he thought, that’s part of any mafia man’s job, isn’t it? 

Shimada takes a turn, then another, and Jesse almost loses him. He scans the new, positively bustling street for that bun, and locates it a dangerous distance away. Jesse chides himself silently for ever assuming this could possibly be easy. 

Still in familiar territory, Jesse makes mental notes of the path taken. He pushes through the same old streets, the shops and their own darkened doorways, and the road to the harbor, which he makes note of Mr. Shimada avoiding. So, he’s not looking for a boat. Good to know. 

A few more blocks, the crowd thinning with the work day underway. Jesse bites at his tongue as Shimada suddenly dodges the main roads, opting for a hidden residential street that only leads to interconnected alleys. There will be people, sure, but not nearly enough to wrap themselves around his being there. But a piece of him twists, the yearning piece of him that always brings him back to his old life, to wonder whatever became of it, and he takes the plunge. 

Turning down the street, he holds back a fraction of a second. He gets his bearings; some women with shawls passing either direction, a couple kids splashing a puddle up the sides of a house, and a stench that could kill a man hiding under running water and baking bread. When he walks again, every window he passes sends a chill on his neck up into his hairline, too many eyes for one home, peering down his back. But, he reminds himself, there is only one pair of eyes that shouldn’t see him at the moment, and they are still firmly planted on the road ahead. Jesse takes a chilling breath. 

As they treks through the backstreets, it slowly dawns on Jesse how much the city has changed since he last called an area like this home. Nearly six years now, a small, shocked voice tells him, but in that time, a decade turned, a war ended both at home and overseas, and another, more insidious one seems to have begun. 

He tosses glances into some of the open windows and doors, seeing only drab furniture and cramped families, until he falls upon a scruffy man, smoking in a rare gap between buildings. The man pays Jesse no mind, just another stranger, but his eyes stick with Jesse long after they’ve disappeared. Dark and deep, but empty, their life passed on to a child, or more likely a few, and they drag Jesse back to his own scene. A house with a gap, a cigarette, and eyes that still had some light to them. 

Jesse breathes in the memory of Gabe, and the ghost of a hand ruffles his hair. It’s indistinct, the numerous times standing in that shade, shooting the breeze blending together to create something more like an emotion instead of a flashback. But it plays behind his eyes all the same. He lets it go this time, like background music to his walk. 

Shimada turns sharply, almost like he too is lost in the past, and a small alley opens onto another main street, an open plaza. Jesse rolls back a step at the sight of a thick crowd, locking onto the bobbing bun over the throngs of people chattering, stopped. They stand in semi circles around a line Jesse can’t see, but looking up to the building across the street, he blanches. The police station. 

Jesse watches the bun shift in the crowd, moving out towards the buildings for some breathing room, but it stops. Mr. Shimada stands with some hangers back, those who look mildly interested in whatever destruction lies on the other side, but only if it proves beneficial to them. He doesn’t acknowledge them, however, and Jesse grumbles internally, hoping to have been able to eavesdrop, possibly see some kind of handoff, anything. 

Yet he stays. He keeps his distance, and he is blind to the world in front of him, only watching through his peripherals. Shimada cranes his neck, chin up, looking beyond the line. His searching eyes stop, and though his expression remains still, Jesse tries to trace his gaze. 

Jesse wouldn’t say he’s much taller than the average curious bystander, but his toes give him the ever so slight boost he needs to get a glimpse of tomorrow’s headline. Police, both uniformed and not, stand in various clumps, but none so strategically placed as to block the dark stain on the station’s floor, nearly touching the threshold. Jesse’s face screws up in unpleasantry as he relaxes back onto his heels. He’s seen those robot cops take a lot of shit; he knows what it looks like when they bleed. 

He holds back the tide of questions he could only shrug an answer at to glance back at Mr. Shimada. On the surface, he still seems blank, not even the slightest bit curious, but there is a tension in his jaw, a slow forming wrinkle in his brow. His business isn’t finished here, Jesse guesses. 

Jesse gives his toes another go and surveys for anything that could possibly catch a secretive mobster’s attention, only coming up with everything, when a flash of brightness draws him. Hair that could give Zarya’s a run for its money, shifting in the light as it’s owner runs his hands through it in what Jesse assumes his anxiety. Jesse watches the hand fall to a face that smacks him like a freight train. 

His name buzzes through Jesse’s head, and the wave of stupidity that it brings makes Jesse nauseous. Genji. He can’t believe he didn’t make the connection; he can’t believe he forgot. Genji Shimada. 

Back down on flat feet, his head is adrift. _There’s no way,_ he thinks, _Genji Shimada is dead._

Apparently not, another voice says, and he has to agree. The young man is standing barely twenty feet away, unmistakably alive and working for the police. His mind tries to draw present conclusions, how Genji’s hatred for their old gang probably makes him an irreplaceable asset, but the street, the crowd, the station gives way to an old warehouse, damp in the morning light. 

Jesse is sure the memory has been warped over time, but he recalls Gabe laughing. His laugh was always gruff, nearly humorless, but Jesse had learned to tell the good laughs from the bad, as well as better jokes. He stood close to the yawning garage door, chuckling along and gazing out at the glimmering water. Its shine didn’t quite reach the warehouse floor, but he liked to imagine he could feel the sea breeze, the salt on his tongue. The waiting wasn’t half as bad when the drop off location had a view. 

And just like that, it was blocked. Men in suits and dark sunglasses, everything about them angled and sharp. They formed a quick line, almost cutting off the main exit in what was surely a show of force, but Jesse remembers scoffing at their brazenness. If Overwatch needed a way out, they would make one. 

A man the same as the rest but with a few more deep wrinkles in his cheeks stepped forward, close enough to see he nearly rivaled Gabe’s height, but still out of striking distance. He cleared his throat.

“Let us make this quick,” he said, an accent mingling with his words. “This is your new recruit.” 

He spread an arm wide, and someone stumbled forward to meet it, or rather, was pushed. Jesse raised an eyebrow in question, and he heard a low grunt from Gabe. Jack was silent. Things pause, he remembers. Jack was there. 

Things resume. The kid was barely a buck twenty soaking wet, and his hair screamed defiance to authority. He had a deeper frown than those surrounding him, actual anger behind it than just a facade of toughness. Jesse imagined they weren’t very far apart in age, but his crossed arms and diverted eyes made him look like a child being scolded for something he knew he shouldn’t have done, but would stand by nonetheless. 

“This is Genji Shimada. The family wishes you to show him how it is done,” the man continues. “They wish for him to lead, someday, or at least be able to follow.” He shot a glare at the kid. 

“This isn’t some babysitting club,” Gabe replied, all business. “If he stays, he’s one of us, no if’s, and’s, or but’s.” 

“That is understood,” the man says with such gravity, Jesse thought the roof may collapse. 

The newcomer, Genji, stuck his chin out further, and Jesse felt a laugh somewhere in his gut. _He’s gonna be a piece of work,_ he thought. But he also saw a recognition in him, maybe different backgrounds, different lives led to get each of them to that point, but a similar attitude. A sort of “live for the self, rest of the world be damned” type of outlook. He must have had the same look on his face when Gabe first found him. 

The memory flickers out, their first words lost to time, but Jesse remembers the assignments, the rough starts, the radicalism that Genji always seemed to hold in his heart. He remembers finally getting Genji to open up, just a sliver, to tell Jesse about his home back in Japan, how he was surprised to want to go back, but how his hatred kept him in the States. Jesse had asked him what he meant, what did he hate? And Genji gave him a laundry list. His elders, his second-hand duty, his place here, the gang and his family’s ties, his brother. There it was. His brother, Hanzo, who was supposed to be here in his stead, but stayed behind to learn the business from home. 

And so Genji held onto that hatred, he claimed, to fuel his moving forward. He was going to make something of himself, just not the way his family wanted him to. Jesse never thought he did, until now.

It wasn’t until a few years later that the “if’s, and’s, or but’s” of being a member of Overwatch become more pressing. Genji never was good at keeping a clamp down on his real feelings, on his mouth, and that made it’s way up the food chain, all the way back to his home. As the story went, his family was so ashamed to have such an insubordinate son that they sent someone to silence him. Jesse never did know how it happened, but next thing he knew, the house burnt down. Nearly the whole street went with it, and then there wasn’t a funeral. Just an absence. Genji Shimada was dead. 

But that must have been a lie, or at least only a partial truth. _iMaybe they don’t know,_ Jesse thinks, back in the street with the crowd and the sun and the dead men, _that must be it. If they knew Genji’s alive, he wouldn’t be._

Despite the change in management, debts were debts, and justice was always served. Jesse doesn’t know how much has changed since Overwatch fell, but that has to be universal.

He takes a breath to firmly plant himself back in reality. He shoots another look over the tops of heads, but he dashes it. Genji will have to be another matter for another day, as the current day’s matter has disappeared. 

Jesse swears at the sudden absent space where Shimada - Hanzo, he corrects, given that there are now two of them - stood seconds ago. Jesse pushes through to the other side of the street, thinner with only hangers on, and attempts to wipe the frustration from his face. He walks slowly in the direction Hanzo must have gone, away from the alley that spat them out, and leaves the disaster-hopeful onlookers behind. 

He thanks his lucky stars and tells the universe he owes it one when he spots a sauntering figure down an empty side street. Almost having lost him once, Jesse throws caution to the wind and follows, the solitude be damned. 

He tries to keep a reasonable distance, but the constant turns of Hanzo’s new path make that difficult. Jesse wonders if he’s taking the scenic route, or trying to shake him. 

But he doesn’t have to hang on for long. With the turn of a heel, quiet, homey streets explode into the hustle and bustle of the city’s main square. The lush, elaborate houses rise high over the positively tiny huts behind him, and they blend seamlessly into expensive stores and high-end nightclubs. Jesse hardly recognizes the place by day, and he notes the cleanliness that’s been applied since he last frequented the area, but its bones are still there. 

The wonder gets the drop on him, and when he sees the heel of Hanzo’s shoe slipping into an alley, he can’t react quick enough. The next thing he catches is the swing of a closing metal door. Windowless, of course, and no knob on the outside. He presses a hand against it, not making a sound, but giving a performance that would make a sailor proud inside his head. The end of the line. 

No, he wouldn’t let it be. All he needs is another door, maybe a window, hell, even a mouse hole could do. He jogs around to the front of the building, and though the facade had been given a facelift, it would be a cold day in hell when he didn’t recognize it. 

The studded lights arching over the front awning reads “Death Blossom” in curly handwriting, accented by a thorny rose wound through the O’s. It’s certainly more attractive than the last one Jesse saw, and the upgrade is understandable, but the name remains the same. He always wondered why young cityfolk would want to party the night away in a place called such, but Gabe had insisted it made the club stand out. Didn’t need the name for that, Jesse thinks bitterly. 

The front doors remain in his way, glossy and tinted, sealed as tight as the mouths behind them. He recalls the solid, foreboding black ones that used to stand as the club’s gateway. Jesse feels a small prick of jealousy on the past’s behalf; he believes the old doors may not have been as pretty, but they must have done a much better job. He does admit the need for a new front, however, given a burnt husk may not make for a decent customer turnout. 

Jesse scrutinizes the new details at the thought of the old, and of what became of them. At the very crest of the wall, above the name and the windows and the crisp brown paint, lies new, unweathered boards, a sign of rebuilding. They pin the box together, but ghosting their edges is a singed black. It could easily be mistaken for a shadow, but Jesse only sees the remnants of the fire that torched that chapter of his life once and for all. 

Movement in the glint of the doors catches his eye. It is only the busybodies on the street, with their prim and prosperity that don’t pay him any mind. But he questions if the doors allow more in than they do out. 

A sharp hand grips his gut. He may be somewhat lucky to have no blood family to speak of, or any that cares enough where he’s gone, otherwise he might have been as dead as the younger Shimada should be. Debts are debts, and as long as Jesse’s don’t bring him back to anyone who wish them paid, he can keep himself six feet above ground. 

He ducks back into the alley, standing on the opposite side of the door’s opening. He should’ve known Hanzo’s path would lead them both here, to the old headquarters. All roads do, eventually. 

He slides down the wall to take a seat on the rocky alley ground. Made it this far, might as well wait, he thinks. He lets his mind wander into the building he’s leaned against, wondering why they chose to keep the same club when so much had changed. In fact, it’s barely even the same plot of land, never mind the same club. He wonders if he really should be worried at all, if anyone that remains still knows about him, or cares he exists. 

_Probably not,_ he thinks, without sadness, without emotion. _Gabe himself could probably walk out that door, stare me in the face, and keep on walkin’._

***

Bright, inviting sunlight of midday peaks ever so slightly under the windowless door, and Hanzo crawls to it, drained of any and all energy he hoped to have. He waves the guard aside to show himself out. Throwing the door wide, he breaths to steady himself. But it hardly works as he begins to walk away. 

He couldn’t get the boss out of his head, the huge desk, the shadows thrown over his front by the enormous windows looking out to the harbor, the scratching voice sending spikes into every nerve. Hanzo has to respect the boss’s showmanship, but he normally finds himself more annoyed than intimidated. And today was no different, standing on locked knees, having to recount every last detail over and over again until Sombra’s yawns became too much for anyone to bear. The boss dismissed him without much thought, much thanks, tucking the unopened envelope, the same that Hanzo had pinned his fate to, into his cloak like some street corner magician. 

As Hanzo turns into the alley connecting the club’s entertainers’ entrance to the street, clumsy footsteps scuff behind him. He gives a huff in spite of himself; he had hoped his shadow would give up if he stayed inside long enough, but he forgot who he was dealing with. 

“Do you plan on following me for the rest of the day,” Hanzo quips, spinning on his heels, “or just until I walk myself into the ocean?” 

The follower stops where he is, still at the building’s corner, but not nearly far enough behind. The overhead sun casts a shadow under the brim of his hat, but Hanzo watches his eyes look around furtively. 

“Sorry?” McCree asks. Hanzo gives him points for a convincing act of playing dumb, but he doesn’t let up.

“You stand out in a crowd, Jesse McCree, especially on your tiptoes,” Hanzo replies, and he smirks a bit when the other grimaces sheepishly. 

McCree doesn’t move to speak, and Hanzo imagines his train of thought desperately searching for a track out. The rumors he has heard about the cowboy whisper in his ear, about past jobs and skills, an old nickname he surely earned at one point, but hasn’t blown the dust off of in quite some time. He’s rusty. 

“If my information is correct,” Hanzo starts, “you are no longer in this game. So why follow me, and here of all places? What are you hoping to learn?” 

McCree shrugs, and that relaxed grin returns. “Sombra said ya didn’t get out much. I wanted to see where they kept ya cooped.” He gestures back to headquarters. “Place looks great, by the way, love what y’all’ve done with it.” 

His false levity isn’t much appreciated. Hanzo’s feet beg him to move on, to leave McCree to his snooping, keeping that bloodhound nose away from his own proceedings. “I’ll pass your compliments along,” he says, clipped. “But you should know as well as I, you aren’t welcome here. You got your way out, so stay out.” 

“And should I pass that along to your brother?” comes a reply. Hanzo, already having considered the conversation done, whips back around, feeling like a brush fire. 

“Don’t you dare--” He starts to march towards McCree, who throws his hands up in innocence.

“I don’t mean to dare nothin’. I’m just wonderin’, do your pals in there know he’s alive?” McCree asks, with a somewhat genuine curiosity. “Seems like an awfully big secret to keep.” 

Hanzo steps to McCree, pouring every ounce of anger he has into the few inches McCree has on him. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he seethes. “If you have any amount of decency left to you, stay away from him.” 

“What about you? You got any decency?” McCree questions again. Hanzo can’t hear any malice in his words, but they strike him in the heart all the same. The bring pause.

He doesn’t drop the killer stare. “That is what I’m here to get back.”

“The hell does that mean?” McCree squints, and Hanzo looks him up and down, reading between the shaggy clothes and unkempt beard. He doesn’t know all the pieces of the cowboy’s checkered past, but that’s all he knows it to be now: the past. McCree left for a reason, the specifics unimportant compared to the result; he’s out, and he’s alive. 

_Maybe we don’t work in trust anymore,_ Hanzo thinks, _but rather in measured risks._

Hanzo sighs, expelling what he can of his outburst. “It means you are right, my brother’s life is too big of a secret.” He feels the true weight of that secret on his heart for the first time. His body sags with the overdue exhaustion, with the bribes he’s had to make, the mouths he’s had to sew shut, the candle he’s had to burn at both ends for fear of it being snuffed out. 

So he spills. “I’ve been working with the San Francisco police department to take down the crime syndicate now known as Talon. I cannot stop until Genji is free.” 

He watches McCree digest this, blinking slowly, processing. There is no shock, just the rolling of ideas over the tongue. 

Then he smiles. It’s large, too large, almost unbelieving, and Hanzo feels a lick of that previous flame ignite in his gut. McCree doesn’t laugh at him, exactly, but there’s a chiseled humor to his tone. “Alright, good luck with that.” And he turns away. 

Hanzo has to admit, that was unexpected. But he can’t let McCree leave, not with his life riding on his shoulders as such. _A measured risk,_ he reminds himself, _and perhaps a small push._

“Help me,” Hanzo calls, not a plea or a cry, but an order. He plants his feet, back straight, not letting his hands ball into fists. He is a rock, immovable. “Talon has taken things from you, too. Help me bring back balance.” 

McCree’s footsteps stutter, and he stops. He takes his time coming back to face Hanzo, the word “no” etched in every crease of his frown. He slips his hands into his pockets, and he looks to the clouds. His face is finally properly illuminated, looking like a sunset sky after a storm. Hanzo nearly holds his breath while the world turns. He doesn’t need the help, hell, he’s not even sure if he wants it, but a small part of him clutches onto the idea of no longer being alone. 

Without a word, without so much as a grunt, not even a glance, McCree wheels back around. Each crunch of dirt under his boots twists Hanzo’s face in confusion, anger, loss. He, too, is about to wipe his hands of the cowboy, of everyone altogether when a voice, muffled by a newly placed cigarette says, “See you tonight.” 

Hanzo stares down his nose at the retreating figure, teasing out the meaning behind the response. It’s cryptic, not a definite agree or dismissal by any means. It’s measured. 

He’ll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew!! Ok I know I said the second chapter would be shorter but uh. That didn't happen. So here it is! Chapter 2!! 3 will be along in about the same amount of time (hopefully). 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and for your lovely comments on the last chapter. It means a lot that people actually enjoyed this!! So thank you, from the bottom of heart !!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Wow, thanks so much for reading!! I haven't written a fic in, what, four/five years?? So I'm rusty, but I was struck with a sudden inspiration, and this long boy was born. It's a little bit of a mess, I have a LOT of ideas for world building and backstory, and they all wanna come out at once. They will, but in due time (hopefully)!! 
> 
> HUGE MEGA shoutout to @miamaroo, without her this would not have happened!! She's a creative genius, people. 
> 
> Stick around if you please!! Chapter 2 will be along soon, and probably shorter, lol. Again, thanks so much for reading!!


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